


Merry & Bright

by moonix



Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: Advent Calendar, Drabble Collection, Drabbles, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-01
Updated: 2020-12-24
Packaged: 2021-03-09 18:47:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 24
Words: 7,248
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27820966
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonix/pseuds/moonix
Summary: An AFTG advent calendar to brighten up December, featuring important questions such as: What is Neil supposed to do with his Secret Santa gift? Where did the ice-cream go? Can a Fox wear tiger stripes? Who is the little spoon? Did Neil's uncle once kill a man for microwaving tea? Is Jean alright? How much of a fool did Kevin make out of himself in front of Jeremy Knox last night? And where the fuck is the fucking nutmeg?(I'll post a drabble per day, see chapter titles for characters/pairings and ratings!)
Relationships: Minor or Background Relationship(s), Neil Josten/Andrew Minyard
Comments: 301
Kudos: 637





	1. Andrew/Neil, Secret Santa, kissing (T)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [djhedy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/djhedy/gifts).



> Well! Here we are. What a year it's been. I think we could all use a little bit of light-heartedness and cheer as we wade through the dregs of it, so I hope you enjoy my humble offering of drabbles. Wrap up warm, make a cuppa, settle in - but above all, look after yourselves out there, okay? You matter. Let's go.

“What exactly am I supposed to do with this?” Neil asks, holding up the little jar of lip scrub he received from Renee in the Foxes’ newly created annual game of Secret Santa. The contents look a little bit like sugar and smell minty-sweet like some kind of candy cane confectionery.

Andrew holds out his hand. When Neil gives him the jar, Andrew pokes him with his finger until Neil stumbles backwards into the armchair in front of the TV, then Andrew climbs into his lap.

“Oh. Hello,” Neil says, smirking up at him. This is a thing they’ve been trying lately, and Neil has to say he’s enjoying it immensely. Andrew, by the looks of it, does too.

“Yes?” Andrew checks, still holding the jar. Neil nods, and Andrew unscrews the lid and carefully scoops some of the lip scrub onto his finger. Frowning in concentration, he applies the crumbly mixture onto Neil’s mouth, rubbing gentle circles as he does. Neil has to resist the temptation to purse his lips into a kiss and waits until Andrew is done.

“And now?” he asks. His lips feel sticky, still coated in the residue. Andrew frowns at them, then ducks down and licks at his mouth.

“Um!” Neil says, startled.

Andrew looks at him, eyes shiny like Christmas baubles, and Neil relaxes again.

“Um… go on,” he amends, curious.

Andrew tilts his head back with both hands and kisses a wobbly path along his bottom lip, nipping and licking at the minty sugar, mercilessly chasing the taste deep into Neil’s mouth.

“Huh,” Neil murmurs when they finally come up for air, smiling against Andrew’s mouth. “Guess Renee was secretly _your_ Secret Santa.”


	2. Andrew/Neil, tummy (T)

Andrew Minyard is not a man of many words.

His stomach, however, is one chatty bastard, Neil thinks delightedly, pressing his ear to the warm skin and listening to it gurgling away happily beneath the surface.

“Is that so?” he asks, brushing his fingers over Andrew’s navel without dipping in—Andrew doesn’t like that—and tucking a tiny kiss underneath it, where the hair starts to thicken and Neil can smell the beginnings of something more secret and wonderful. There’s another gurgle as if in reply, this one loud and bold. “Mm. Yes. I see.”

A sharp jab to his side makes him squirm and look up.

“What are you doing,” Andrew says flatly, frowning.

“Your stomach and I are having a civilised conversation,” Neil sniffs. “Duh.” Andrew’s tummy rumbles in a very uncivilised manner and Neil scowls down at it. “Hey, don’t you mock me, mister. You are on thin fucking ice.”

There’s a little warble, which Neil silences with a kiss.

“Weirdo,” Andrew tells him, then goes back to his book.

Neil takes that as permission to continue his conversation.


	3. Kevin & Neil, running (G)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw brief mention of alcoholism

The morning air is sharp and citrusy bright, searing his throat as he sucks it down. His heart is thudding in his chest and if he squints, he can almost see steam rising off his arms. He opens his mouth and laughs, wheezing a little as his lungs constrict.

“I win,” he gloats, looking back over his shoulder at Neil, who rolls his eyes.

“My shoelace came undone. That’s hardly a win,” Neil scoffs.

“Don’t be a sore loser,” Kevin smirks. “You just didn’t bring it today.”

He doesn’t expect the punch to his arm and staggers, feet slip-sliding on the rock salt glittering on the pavement. His breath billows out from his mouth like a sail. He feels light, and heavy at the same time.

“Stretch,” Neil reminds him, already bending his knee and twisting low. Kevin imitates him, still floaty from the last mad dash for the door. They’ve been out nearly an hour, but it’s still early enough that the street is quiet, the house still. He’s looking forward to the first cup of coffee, the sizzle of bacon in a pan. They bought eggs yesterday, lots and lots of eggs, probably more than they’ll need.

“I feel good,” Kevin announces, topping off his stretches with a few jumping jacks to keep the blood flowing.

“Yeah, it’s the serotonin,” Neil says dryly. “Come on, you clown. You can have first shower.”

He pushes him toward the door and Kevin lets him. He does feel good. Really good, actually, for the first time since he stopped drinking.

There’ll be more bad days. He knows that. But right now, standing in the winter sunshine, flush with adrenaline and the simple joy of the race, Kevin can’t help feeling that he can take it. Whatever life throws at him.

He’ll be alright.


	4. Matt/Aaron, popcorn (T)

“Hey,” Matt says, peering into the freezer where he’s about 99% sure there’d been a fresh pint of caramel mocha ice-cream just last night. “Where’d the ice-cream go?”

“Andrew came by,” Aaron offers from the depths of the sofa they rescued from the curb the other week. He looks weirdly small submerged in its cushions, despite his athlete’s bulk, and Matt has the curious urge to cover him in a blanket.

“I see,” Matt hums, closing the door and stretching out the kinks in his spine. “Popcorn, then?”

“Whatever.”

Aaron’s been sharing their dorm long enough that Matt has figured out at least five of the roughly ten different meanings of his “Whatever,” and he’s reasonably certain this one is affirmative more than it is neutral. He sticks a bag in the microwave and pokes at the dishes in the sink while it pops, not really making any headway. When the popcorn is done, he takes it to the sofa and deposits it in Aaron’s conveniently located lap while he fiddles with the TV.

“Eurgh,” Aaron exclaims, with about the same level of disgust as when they found slimy little slugs in their salad from that dodgy diner down Perimeter Road. Matt looks up in alarm, but the popcorn seems perfectly adequate.

“What?”

“This is salted,” Aaron hisses, shoving another handful in his mouth as if to confirm and pulling a face. “Gross.”

“Stop eating it, then,” Matt laughs, leaning over to pull the bowl from his hands. Aaron holds it out of his reach and Matt overbalances, crashing face-first into his lap.

For a moment, they both freeze. Then Matt pushes himself upright sheepishly and Aaron hitches an eyebrow at him and says, “I won’t tell anyone if you make me a bowl of proper popcorn.”

“Tell anyone what,” Matt grins, “that I face-planted on your dick? That’s gay.”

Aaron rolls his eyes and pushes his face away. “Go make me popcorn, Boyd.”

“Alright, alright.”

Matt pulls another sachet of popcorn from the cupboard, checking that it’s sweet, and has a sudden suspicion where that ice-cream went. For once, he doesn’t think Andrew had anything to do with it, either.


	5. Allison, Dan & Renee (Allison/Renee), bonfire (G)

“I can’t believe we’re really leaving in less than a week,” Dan sighs mournfully for the third time that night.

“Well, _I_ can’t believe I’m so fucking maudlin about that,” Allison announces, swishing the last mouthful of her gin around in her glass and watching the way the firelight reflects in it. “I don’t even _like_ you.”

She gestures at Dan and Renee, who both laugh.

They’re well past the early days, where they used to circle each other like wary animals, looking for any misstep or sign of weakness. Allison still swears that Renee can smell fear, and sometimes her shin twinges with phantom pain from the bruise Dan gave her during her first practice.

“I will miss you both a whole lot,” Renee says, her smile wreathed in flame. Allison straightens up.

“Let’s make a pact,” she says, poking at the dregs of their bonfire until a charred stump of wood pops free.

“What kind of pact?” Dan asks, perking up.

“Eternal loyalty and sisterhood, of course. Here.”

She swipes at the smear of ash on the ground, coating both her hands in it. Then she takes Dan and Renee’s hands and presses their palms together.

“Swear it,” she tells them.

“I swear,” Dan says, grinning, “to eternal loyalty and sisterhood. As long as that doesn’t make it incestuous when the two of you finally get together.”

Renee seems to choke on a curl of smoke from the fire, but Allison doesn’t let her slip her hand out of her grasp.

“You too,” she demands.

“I swear,” Renee coughs weakly.

“I swear,” Allison adds solemnly, linking her fingers with the others’, “to eternal loyalty, sisterhood, and glorious lesbianism. There. It’s done.”

“Oh good,” Dan says, relieved. “I thought these kinds of things involved like… menstrual blood and dancing naked under the full moon, or something.”

“Don’t be silly,” Allison says, “that’s step two, of course.”


	6. Andrew/Neil, breakfast in bed (E)

Andrew is a simple man of simple pleasures.

Neil, face-down on their bed with his legs spread, moaning and arching underneath him, is one of them. They don’t do this nearly often enough, Andrew thinks, tracing the crease of Neil’s thighs and leisurely pushing his cheeks apart, surveying his work.

“Andrew,” Neil groans, pressing down against his grip. “Fuck, don’t just stop.”

“Don’t rush me,” Andrew hums, licking a wet stripe over his hole and delighting in the way Neil twitches against him. “It’s my day off, and I want breakfast in bed.”

“How am I supposed to bring you- ah! Oh. _Oh_.”

And, well. Andrew’s mouth is too busy to comment on how long it took Neil to get it. Seems they’re both having a slow morning—just as Andrew likes it.


	7. Andrew/Neil, long distance (G)

“Have you eaten,” Andrew asks, just as Neil stands in front of the empty, yawning void of his kitchen cupboards and the black hole his fridge has turned into.

“Yeah,” Neil lies, drumming his finger against the counter. “You?”

“Hmm.”

They’re silent for a long moment. Neil leaves the cupboards open so Andrew won’t hear the snap of the doors closing and circles back to the fridge. There’s a squeezy bottle of mustard even though Neil does not like mustard, a suspect looking packet of cocktail sauce from some long-forgotten takeaway, and a punnet of fresh blueberries wedged in the vegetable drawer. He takes those out, flicks a few mouldy ones into the trash, and rinses the rest.

There. Dinner.

(It’s not lying if you still do the thing, after all.)

He sits cross-legged on the sofa, every muscle feeling sore and tired and heavy, picking at his blueberries and staring at the blank TV screen.

Shifts. Clears his throat. Listens to Andrew breathing on the other end.

“I need to go grocery shopping,” he finally admits.

“Get some Ben&Jerry’s,” Andrew advises without missing a beat.

Neil frowns.

Andrew waits.

Then it clicks, all of a sudden, like finally poking out something stuck between his teeth.

“You’re coming?” Neil asks, clenching his fist against the unexpected flush of neediness.

“Yes,” Andrew simply says. “But if your fridge is empty I will turn around and leave.”

“Sure,” Neil says, slow grin infusing his face with warmth.

He looks at the sad, soggy remains of his blueberries and picks up a pen to write his shopping list.


	8. Andrew/Neil, going pro (T)

“Andrew Minyard—back in orange! Notoriously controversial goalkeeper for the Palmetto Foxes, Andrew Minyard, signed a last-minute contract with the Texas Tigers. Whether or not he’s a good fit for them, their orange and black uniforms seem a good fit for Minyard, who’s used to wearing the Foxes’ eclectic orange and white and is known to have a penchant for black clothing off the court. When asked if he chose the Tigers’ stripes because the colour scheme would make him feel less homesick, Minyard replied, _I’m colourblind_ , demonstrating once again that he has a sense for humour as well as fashion. His much less interesting twin brother declined to comment, the dick. Neil Josten, starting striker and captain of Minyard’s old alma mater team, commented: _Andrew in orange is the hottest thing since-_ hey!”

The magazine is ripped unceremoniously from Neil’s grip and Neil has to dodge the playful swat of it, laughing. He ends up within grabbing range of Andrew’s other arm and gets promptly reeled in and pressed flush against his front.

“Hi,” Neil whispers. “Number nine, starting goalie for the Texas Tigers. Rawr.”

“Shut up,” Andrew tells him, wrapping both arms around him and kneading his hands into the back of Neil’s jeans. Neil pushes their noses together, humming, and Andrew chases blindly after a kiss. Just as Neil is melting into it, Andrew pulls away and tugs on the waistband of his underwear, revealing a strip of orange fabric underneath the black band.

“Really?”

Neil shrugs and grins.

“Had to get some merch, didn’t I? Don’t worry, I have matching ones for you.”

Andrew shoots him an unimpressed look and snaps the waistband against his naked skin, making him jump—right into another kiss.


	9. Andreil, bedtime (G)

“So,” Neil says, voice muffled by Andrew’s t-shirt.

“No.”

“I didn’t even say anything yet,” Neil complains. “I just mean-”

“Sleep,” Andrew orders, tightening his grip on Neil’s arm.

“Hmm,” Neil makes, sullenly, his breath warming the top of Andrew’s spine. He manages to stay quiet for all of thirty seconds—Andrew counts—before his mouth moves again. “This is nice, you know. Except for how I can’t feel my right arm anymore. I may have to ask Kevin how he learned to play Exy with his non-dominant hand.”

“Neil,” Andrew warns, but, as always, Neil ignores him.

“Hey, I’m watching your back. Literally. Get it?”

“I will throw you off the bed.”

“But then who would spoon you?”

Andrew pushes one of his freezing cold feet behind himself, catching Neil’s calf and revelling in the little yelp that produces.

“Go to _sleep_ ,” he stresses, and for a blessed minute there is silence.

Then, “Did you just _wiggle your butt_?”


	10. Wymack and the Foxes, snowball (G)

The snowball lands on the back of Wymack’s head with a fat, wet splat.

He whips around, wiping off the sludge with a disgusted noise, but his Foxes suddenly seem to all have become very engrossed in very random things. He narrows his eyes, trying to detect a slight veneer of guilt in a rosy cheek, a badly hidden coating of snow in someone’s glove. Allison is fixing her hair in the side mirror of Andrew’s car, Matt is whistling badly, Dan has perfected her impression of an angel sent from the heavens, and Renee is smiling serenely at all of them.

“Alright, you fuckers, you know what that means,” Wymack grunts, trying to look menacing despite the wet dribble down his neck. “You’re all of you running laps until someone fesses up.”

“But, Coach,” Dan simpers. “It’s almost Christmas.”

“Which means you’re all going to sit around on your lazy asses all day and stuff yourselves with food over the break,” Wymack nods. “Good point, Captain. Make that _extra_ laps.”

They all groan, but there’s still a cinnamon pinch of merriment to them that even Wymack’s grumpiness can’t squash. He watches them trudge into the court with something like fondness tickling behind his chest—or maybe that’s just the overdue heart attack making itself known at long last.


	11. Neil & the Foxes, guessing game (G)

“My uncle once killed a man for microwaving a cup of tea,” Neil says.

There’s a small silence where they all collectively go through the customary stages of: Neil is joking, Neil is actually serious, no wait obviously Neil is just messing with us, actually he can’t seriously think we’d believe this so he must be joking, but look at his face it must be true, we’re all fools of course he’s just taking the piss.

“False,” Dan decides, jump-starting the rest out of their indecision.

“True,” Matt says, shrugging when Dan shoots him a surprised look. “You saw the guy. He’s terrifying and British.”

“I call bullshit,” Allison says, burned too many times by now to believe anything Neil says anymore, and blows on her nails as they dry.

“It’s probably true,” Aaron pipes up. He rarely joins this game, but tonight he is apparently bored enough or lazy enough or can’t be fucked enough to get out of the dorm, and while he’s slouched sideways in the armchair and playing Sudoku on his phone it’s clear he’s been listening to them. “Maniac gene runs in the family.”

“Kevin?” Dan calls over to the kitchen, where Kevin is carefully removing a cup of tea from the microwave.

“True,” he says solemnly. “Though I still don’t see why it makes a difference. Scientifically-”

“Don’t let Neil’s uncle hear you say that,” Matt jokes.

“Well?” Dan says, turning to Neil. “True or false?”

Neil smirks.


	12. Andrew/Neil, apple picking (G)

Neil can’t decide what he likes better: watching Andrew’s back flex as he climbs the ladder and stretches to pick the shiny red apple Neil wants, or witnessing him put away three warm cider doughnuts rolled in cinnamon sugar as his reward like it’s the best thing he’s ever eaten.

“Staring,” Andrew tells him, though it comes out muffled from the last huge bite of doughnut.

“Can’t hear you,” Neil teases. A gust of wind sweeps the outdoor seating area by the orchard, rustling the nearly-spent leaves and making Neil shiver. Autumn is down to its last embers, its reddish glow almost snuffed out by winter’s grey blanket.

“Another,” Andrew demands once he’s finished the last doughnut, holding out the greasy paper plate with one hand and licking cinnamon sugar from his fingers.

“Careful,” Neil grins, chin in hand, “people are gonna start thinking you’re my kept man.”

“They’d be right. Out of the two of us, who’s the exy star and who’s the struggling author?” Andrew deadpans, waggling his fingers.

“You’re only struggling because you expect too much,” Neil tuts. “And you forgot _retired_ exy star. You made more than me on your last team.”

They don’t mention the fact that Neil doesn’t actually get to keep most of his money, either.

They don’t mention the fact that soon, Neil might.

If what they’ve put in motion over the last decade works out, finally putting the rotting, overripe Moriyama empire to rest.

Neil takes the paper plate and gets up, hunching his shoulders against the wind. Something soft hits him in the neck and he grabs it, finding Andrew’s cashmere scarf.

“Sap,” he accuses, throwing a grin over his shoulder like a shiny candy wrapper. Even in the fading light Andrew is looking good—better, even; age has really transformed him into a work of art. Maybe it’s Neil who’s the sap. Maybe he doesn’t care.

Andrew just points to the paper plate and makes a little shooing motion, and Neil tears his eyes away from his husband and goes to fulfil his marital duties by getting him another doughnut.


	13. Jean, bubble bath (G)

_Delicate Champagne Delights_ , the bottle promises. Jean checks the picture on the label again, the cutesy, white, sparkly foam just topping off the bathwater like steamed milk, then looks back at the real bathtub in front of him currently piled sky high with a thick, frothing mass of bubbles that just keeps _growing_.

Maybe he used a little too much.

It’s not like Jean has any experience with these things.

“Jean?” Renee calls through the door, knocking lightly. “Everything alright?”

“Great,” Jean calls back.

“I’ve brought you some more clothes. They’re Allison’s, so at least they should fit you this time.”

Jean refrains from commenting on the number of short people on this shambolic team and tells her thank you, waiting for her steps to fade down the hallway.

The bubble bath makes a soft, crackly noise as it sits. Steam fills the little bathroom, smudging everything into softness. The heating is turned up, there’s an unlit lavender scented candle on the ledge in the wall, and he can hear low, quiet music seeping through the wall from the other room.

He shrugs, sets the bottle down, and steps right into the mounds of champagne foam.


	14. Seth, Matt & Neil, porn (M)

Neil has had enough.

“None of this is doing anything for me,” he says, spreading his fingers on the table and making to get up. He flinches when Seth grabs him by the scruff of his neck and pushes him back down, and makes a point of winding out of his and Matt’s oppressive flanks the second Seth lets go.

Seth snorts and holds up his hands.

“Called it,” he says triumphantly.

“No, no, no,” Matt objects, flapping his hands at Neil to sit back down. “We haven’t done the reverse test yet. Look for some gay porn.”

“Like fuck I’m going to do that,” Seth snarls, face constricting almost comically.

“Being gay isn’t a computer virus, you know,” Neil chimes in, more interested in the prospect of making Seth uncomfortable than in the actual watching of porn. He wasn’t lying; it really doesn’t do anything for him, at all. They might as well be showing him cooking videos.

“Either we make the reverse test, or we call a draw,” Matt insists. “Guess you don’t really care about winning the money in the pot, after all…”

He trails off suggestively and Seth scowls, then points a warning finger at him.

“If you breathe a word of this to anyone, you’re a dead man walking, Boyd.”

“Sure, sure,” Matt grins. “Now find some good butt action for us.”

Seth huffs and types something laboriously into his laptop. Neil rolls his eyes and waits, eager to get this over with so he can go and pester Kevin about night practice.

Seth finds something and lets out a bark of laughter.

“What?” Matt wants to know, leaning over to see the screen. “Oh my god.”

“I’m going to send this to Kevin,” Seth says gleefully.

“That’s not even a real racquet,” Neil points out.

“I know,” Seth smirks. “He’s gonna bust a nut.”


	15. Nicky/Erik, caramelised almonds (G)

It’s that scent, Nicky thinks, breathing in deeply. That glorious, sticky-sweet, caramelised scent that permeates German Christmas markets and fairgrounds, a staple of childhood and not-quite-ready-to-leave-childhood-behind-hood.

“Here,” Erik says, taking a caramelised almond from the green paper bag and holding it out to him. “Try. They’re still warm.”

Nicky eats out of his hand, because of course he does; he’s absolutely, inescapably gone for this man, so gone it scares him sometimes.

The almonds are indeed still warm. Sticky and crunchy and perfect. Nicky ends up eating almost the whole bag, despite his earlier reassurances that he’s still far too full from Erik’s mother’s cooking to have more than a tiny nibble. Erik, good-natured as always, just laughs and hugs him close to his side, their breaths mingling in front of their faces.

“I missed you,” Erik says, earnest and bright. A few snowflakes have caught in his beard, and Nicky reaches out to wipe them off but ends up just awkwardly patting his face instead.

“I missed you too,” he sighs, “so damn much.”


	16. Andrew/Neil, let go (E)

“Shh, they’ll hear you,” Neil whispers, breath ghosting over Andrew’s overheated skin like a balm.

“I’m not the one who keeps talking,” Andrew grits out, but jolts when Neil grazes the tendon in his neck with his teeth in reprimand. He digs his teeth into his lip, keeping all sounds contained behind the barrier, and Neil smirks.

“That’s better,” Neil hums, nestling sweet little kisses into the hollow of his throat, pulling Andrew’s head back by the hair to expose his Adam’s apple. The vulnerability of the position boils through Andrew, making his neck flush hotly, probably all the way down to his navel. Neil, ever the treasure hunter, follows the lit-up path and buries his nose in Andrew’s happy trail, chasing his scent.

He runs his hands down Andrew’s thighs, hooking them into the sensitive crooks of his knees, and demands, “Open up.”

Andrew wants to roll his eyes, or glare at him, or catch him and flip them both over, but. But. Neil’s been slowly driving him out of his mind all afternoon, and he feels hot and slack and heavy-tired with arousal, and Nicky and Aaron have long since returned from their grocery trip and will demand their presence for dinner soon, and Andrew—can’t. He can’t wait any longer for this.

“Neil,” he growls, tilting his head back again as Neil gently nudges between his legs. He isn’t aware of how fast his breath is going until Neil puts a hand on his chest, soothing the rapid motion.

“Shh,” Neil murmurs. “Relax. It’s okay. Let me- let me take care of you, Andrew.”

He wraps a cool hand around Andrew, squeezing and pulling, a calm, controlled motion that punches an ugly, helpless sound from Andrew’s lungs. His hands open and close where they lie on the pillow by his head, unrestrained but useless, and Neil slides his free hand in one of Andrew’s and lightly tangles their fingers together, still jerking him off with the other.

“It’s okay,” he says again, “you can let go.”

Andrew does.


	17. Kevin & Jean, hangover (G)

“Here,” Jean says, placing a lightly steaming cup of tea in front of Kevin. “Drink up.”

Kevin groans into his arms, then heaves his head over the cup and lets the steam warm his face. He feels like a parasite inhabiting his own body, making all the wrong decisions, ultimately steering them toward their mutual destruction.

“Don’t be dramatic,” Jean huffs, sitting at the table with his own mug. How he can look so fresh and upright when he was drinking just as much, if not more, than Kevin last night is beyond him, but Jean has always been a master at disguising his own discomfort.

“Just tell me,” Kevin whimpers.

“About all the shameful things you did?” Jean grins, sly and pointed like a fox. Which is ironic, because he’s always been a Raven through and through. “Do you want me to go in chronological order or maybe order of severity?”

“Fuck,” Kevin sighs, scrubbing his hands over his face. “Tell me I did not make a fool out of myself in front of Jeremy.”

“You totally made a fool out of yourself in front of Jeremy,” Jean provides promptly. “And the entirety of the Trojans.”

He says Trojans like he’s not one of them now, and Kevin slides both hands around his mug and squeezes until he can’t stand the sting of heat any longer.

“I should fake my own death and disappear,” he announces, waiting for the spark of recognition in Jean’s dark eyes. They used to joke about it, back when.

Back when they were both Ravens through and through.

“A good plan,” Jean agrees, propping his chin on his palm. “Though, I imagine your little bodyguards will track you down eventually.”

“My bodyguards,” Kevin echoes, momentarily confused. Jean simply holds his hand out to indicate the height of two short people and Kevin actually barks out a laugh.

“You mean Andrew and Neil,” he translates. Then he brightens. “Do you think Neil can hire a contract killer to get rid of any witnesses from last night?”

“Probably yes,” Jean muses.

“Great,” Kevin says, taking a sip of his tea. It tastes grassy and slightly bitter, and it settles his roiling stomach and makes him feel warmed and slightly more awake. “It’s settled, then.”


	18. Andrew, Aaron, Kevin & Neil, gingerbread (T)

(cw mention of past self-harm)

*

Andrew bakes gingerbread knives for Christmas.

It’s a tradition started long ago by Bee, during a particularly rough winter, when all Andrew wanted to do was carve intricate patterns into his own skin and watch the blood stain all three of his towels. Nowadays Andrew channels his self-destructive urges into less obvious avenues, and he owns significantly more towels, so things have improved on that front at least.

He dribbles red icing on the tip of a gingerbread knife and sticks some sprinkles on it, to make it look kind of like guts. Satisfied with his handiwork, he puts it down with the others to dry. Neil also left him his gingerbread creatures to decorate, because he’s notoriously terrible at sitting still for an extended period of time. Andrew’s already done the cats, but there’s still a whole farm’s worth of animals waiting for their festive winter coats.

It’s good, meditative work, broken only by Kevin’s frustrated huffs when he invariably breaks another cookie in half and gives up on trying to get the indistinct blobs to resemble important historical figures. Next door Neil is exploding string lights all over the living room and will probably trip on the wires and hurt himself sooner or later, because he always does. Their first aid kit is within easy reach for that very reason.

There’s a knock on the door and a light snarl of voices, then Aaron breezes into the kitchen, covered head to toe in flour like an angry snowman.

“Where the fuck is the fucking nutmeg,” he gripes, then frowns at the army of gingerbread things on every surface. He picks up one of the undecorated knives with distaste. “Are those gingerbread _dicks_?”

“ _You’re_ a gingerbread dick,” Andrew shoots back. Maybe not his best comeback, but at least it makes Aaron sneer.

“Careful Aaron,” Neil grins from the doorway, blinking rainbow string lights draped around his head like an irreverent halo. “If you handle them too long, they might turn you gay.”

Aaron lobs the piece of gingerbread at him and Neil performs the impossible feat of catching it deftly between his teeth with a wink. Andrew accidentally crushes a gingerbread pig in his hand and scowls.

“Nutmeg,” he says, pointing at the spice rack, then at the door. “Bye bye.”

“Merry fucking Christmas to you too,” Aaron mutters, grabbing the nutmeg and stomping out, though not without getting his fingers slapped for attempting to steal a gingerbread Napoleon. At least, Andrew thinks it’s supposed to be Napoleon. Kevin’s artistic skills leave a lot to the imagination.

“You know, they do look a bit like dicks,” Neil muses, sneaking one of Andrew’s knives while he’s not paying attention. He sticks it in his mouth and winks again, easily stepping out of reach of Andrew’s hands. “Yum.”


	19. Andrew/Neil, revenge (G)

Andrew would be lying if he said Neil’s lockpicking skills weren’t hot.

There’s the quiet click of the lock and a tiny, smug noise from Neil, then the door swings open and Andrew steps into the unknown dark after him, nearly tripping on a discarded shoe. The football team is out of the state for an away game this weekend, the perfect time to enact their revenge.

“Gross,” Neil comments, switching on his torch and shining it around the kitchen. “These guys are slobs.”

He picks up a bread knife from the counter and flicks it in his hand before catching it again, giving it an expert twist so it spins in mid-air. He looks at it for a moment, then hefts it in his hand and rams it clean into the kitchen table.

Andrew waits until he’s done showing off before crowding him against the table and kissing him stupid.

“Right,” Neil says as he comes up for air. He lowers his voice in an attempt to sound mock-creepy, but Andrew can’t say he dislikes the rough edge to it. “They messed with the Foxes. Let’s ruin their fucking lives.”


	20. Nicky & the twins, boat (G)

It was supposed to be a fun family outing for the three of them.

Nicky surprises them with the tickets the day after their birthday, because neither twin willingly acknowledges it as such but they also can’t be bothered to kick up a fuss if Nicky waits the requisite twenty-four hours before giving them gifts “just because”. He bundles them both in the car after school, high spirits undeterred by their twin sullen faces, and blasts premature Christmas music until Andrew cracks and turns the radio onto something he pretends he doesn’t care about.

They stop at a diner and Nicky lets both of them steal bites of his food when he isn’t looking, pleased that their customary anger/apathy duet seems to be thawing a little around the edges. Everything is going fine until they actually step on the boat.

“Just try not to think about it,” Nicky advises. “Think about something nice instead. Uh, ice-cream. Milkshakes. Oh god I can only think of food… Um, boys? I mean, girls. Whatever rocks your boat. Shit, I said boat. And I said it again.”

“Stop talking,” Andrew groans. He is clutching the railing like a dying man and looks white as a sheet. Aaron seems to have passed into green territory, and is keeping his mouth clamped firmly shut lest something other than words comes out.

“Okay, let’s all stay calm,” Nicky says, mostly to himself, and gets out his phone. “Erik will know what to do.”

He steps away for a moment to call his boyfriend. A moment turns into twenty minutes, and when he comes back, Aaron is nowhere in sight and Andrew is clutching the railing a little less desperately, his attention diverted by a cute looking redhead who seems to be explaining in great detail how boats stay afloat.

Nicky sees the spark of interest in Andrew’s gaze and wisely decides to go hunt down the other twin.


	21. Andrew & Renee, shooting stars (G)

“Twenty-two,” Renee says, a smile plucking at her mouth in that infuriating humble-but-smug way she has whenever she beats Andrew, which is often.

“Fuck you,” Andrew grits out, squinting at the night sky. He should have brought his fucking glasses. He’s behind two shooting stars, it’s colder than a corpse’s nostril, and his ass is starting to go numb from sitting on the hood of his car for so long.

Something winks at the corner of his eye and he makes a triumphant noise.

“Twenty-one.”

“Twenty-three,” Renee adds calmly, having spotted it too, because of course she did.

Andrew swirls the last sip of his spiced hot cocoa around in his tin cup and drains it before sliding off the car.

“Fine. You win. It’s too fucking cold, my toes are about two seconds away from falling off.”

Renee cheerfully hops off the hood and gathers up their blankets and thermos before getting into the passenger seat while Andrew turns the heating up full blast.

“Hey,” she says when Andrew flexes his fingers to get some life back into them, “it’s good to see you.”

Andrew taps his thumb against the steering wheel, glancing out the windshield up at the clear black sky. Another shooting star fizzes past, and he silently adds it to his mental tally.

“You too,” he says at last, and starts the car.


	22. Jean/Jeremy, date (G)

The restaurant is nicer than Jean expected.

Tables are tucked into little nooks divided by carved wooden screens and lit by low-hanging silver lanterns. Plants are draped playfully over every surface, candles flicker along the walls, and the air is warm with hints of spices and rosewater.

The food is good. Stuffed dates, saffron-yellow couscous studded with pomegranate seeds like jewels, buttery lamb tagine with dried fruit. Jeremy orders dessert despite Jean’s protests and they split it, spoons clattering lavishly against the plate. Jean swirls his through the last trickle of honey and licks it clean, placing it down neatly on his napkin and folding his hands.

“So,” he asks, “do you take all your new recruits here, or…?”

He lets the sentence trail off to give Jeremy an opportunity to explain, to make sense of this evening.

“Well,” Jeremy coughs, a little sheepishly. “If I did, it would be a little late for that, wouldn’t it? You’re hardly a new recruit anymore.”

“Sure,” Jean allows, picking his spoon back up between two fingers and twirling it idly. Jeremy reaches out to steady it and Jean drops his hand back on the pristine white tablecloth, spreading his fingers and making space for Jeremy to settle his fingers in the gaps.

“You’re,” Jeremy says, “special. Okay? That’s all.”

Jean looks at their hands, the different shades of their skin, the contrast of scars versus freckles, and nods.

“Alright,” he says. 


	23. Neil & the Foxes, birthday surprise (G)

“It’s a candy apple bar,” Abby says, looking slightly sheepish. “I may have gone a little overboard.”

Neil looks at the spread on the breakfast bar and is inclined to agree. She’d asked him what he wanted for his twenty-first birthday, and he’d said something with fruit, because he isn’t big on cake and Abby’s baking skills are famously infamous among the Foxes. There is a large sandwich platter in the middle, laid out neatly with apple slices, strawberries, grapes and bananas. Around it are several bottles and bowls filled with different toppings—chocolate and butterscotch chips, sprinkles, chopped nuts, edible glitter, and more—and in the corner are two chocolate fondues with melted chocolate for dipping.

“Thanks,” Neil says belatedly. “That’s… yeah. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Abby says, pleased. She makes an aborted motion like she’s going to ruffle his hair but notices him ducking away and stops. Neil isn’t sure whether to be awkward or grateful and settles on grabbing a plate and loading it with fruit. He tries some of the toppings, too—his favourite turns out to be apple with dark chocolate, crushed salted popcorn and coconut flakes—and seeks refuge in the living room, curling his legs under him and watching the Foxes spread mayhem and cheer.

His chest burns with a hollow longing for his original team. Family. Whatever. He swirls his last strawberry through a few drips of chocolate on his plate and plops it in his mouth. Takes out his phone and turns it over and over in his hand, but there are no new messages other than the generic happy birthdays that popped up in the group chat this morning.

“Hey Captain,” Robin says, coming up to him with a plate of banana pieces smothered in caramel sauce. “Quit moping and come outside, we’re playing hacky sack.”

“Fine,” Neil sighs, and puts down his plate. “Does Jack need taking down a peg?”

“Does he ever,” Robin grins, and leads him outside.

There are a lot more people in the backyard than there were earlier.

Neil has to blink twice until the pixelated mess of his vision resolves itself into a clear picture. Dan, who is closest to him, grins fiercely as she pulls him into a one-armed hug.

“Didn’t think we’d forget you, did you?” she murmurs into his hair.

Neil endures it, even though he’s already zeroed in on Andrew across the yard, and, really, all he wants to do is take a flying leap into his arms.

“Course not,” he murmurs, hiding a grin in her shoulder. “I knew you were up to something.”

“What gave it away?” Dan laughs, finally releasing him.

“Matt,” Neil admits. “He used proper punctuation.”

Dan smacks her face and groans.

“That man,” she huffs fondly, “cannot keep a surprise if his life depends on it.”

“Hey,” Neil says, feeling warm all over even though her hug is long gone. “Palmetto missed you.”

“It’s good to be back,” Dan agrees, slapping his shoulder. “Now go get your man.”


	24. Andrew/Neil, mulled wine (G)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are! I can't believe this is the last installment already. Thank you for joining me on this little merry journey, your comments have brightened my days. I wish you all quietly joyful and joyfully quiet holidays, and I'll see you in the next year, which can only be better than the one that is coming to an end.
> 
> Small content warning for alcohol.

There is a boy.

He is sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of Neil’s armchair—not really Neil’s armchair, but it was unoccupied when he arrived at the party and couldn’t find Matt and now he can’t leave it for fear of someone else claiming it while he’s not there to defend it.

Anyway.

There is a boy, sitting in front of Neil’s armchair, frowning, wearing tartan trousers and a bulky woolly sweater with an obnoxiously blinking mistletoe pin, and a pair of fuzzy reindeer antlers looped around his very pretty neck.

“What?” the boy says.

“Nothing,” Neil says, “you have a very nice neck.”

The boy turns red, or maybe that’s just the mistletoe pin changing colour from green to red like a warning.

“What do you want,” Neil asks, feeling like he should ask _something_. His tongue is dry. His brain is swimming. The cup in his hand is empty, a potent, winy smell lingering in the air.

“Are you alright,” the boy says. Neil squints and realises that there’s a name stitched lopsidedly, if lovingly, onto the sweater.

“Andrew,” he tries. “Is that your name.”

“How much wine have you had,” Andrew asks him. Angrily. Maybe.

“None,” Neil says confidently. “A little. A lot. A lot boozy pudding. Have you seen Matt.”

“Matt,” Andrew echoes. Then he twists around, tapping his fingers against his knee. He sticks them in his mouth and whistles sharply, and a girl with dyed hair detaches from a nearby group. “Get Boyd,” Andrew calls to her. She gives him a thumbs-up and disappears, long skirt swishing around her ankles.

“Pretty,” Neil sighs, hugging his mug to his chest. “Everyone is so pretty, it isn’t fair. Can I have more wine.”

“No,” Andrew says. “What’s your name?”

“Neil,” Neil explains, doing his best to shape the sounds right, “N-E-I-L.”

“Okay, spelling bee champion of ‘94,” Andrew says, and settles in to wait.

Some other people drift past, laughing and talking at Andrew, who remains stoic and still.

“Can’t I take one little picture?” one of them pouts, holding up a camera. His sweater says Nick, or maybe Nicky.

“No,” Andrew says.

Nicky moves on. Andrew says, without turning around, “They put fox ears on you. Earlier.”

Neil frowns and reaches up to his head and hits something. Felt. And Pointy. He pulls them off and examines them, then shrugs and puts them back on. Someone else comes over and swaps his empty mug out with a full one before Andrew can stop them; more mulled wine, heavy and spiced, with orange, Neil likes orange, but then Andrew pries the cup from his hand with a click of his tongue and removes it.

“Water,” he tells the person, a tall, ridiculously tall person with long blond hair and shiny tiny bauble earrings and a silver laugh.

“Alright, spoilsport,” the person says, and goes away, and returns with water.

Neil has never been so thirsty in his life.

“Thank you,” he tells Andrew, patting the air next to his shoulder.

“You,” Andrew says, but stops. Neil wonders what it is he is keeping behind his teeth.

Voices.

“Neil! There you are!”

And Matt. Matt who is a traitor because he made Neil come to this party and then wasn’t there, Matt who is tall and safe and Neil’s best friend. He gets Neil upright, sort of.

Neil doesn’t like being drunk.

“This is Andrew,” Neil tells Matt, pointing at Andrew’s sweater. The mistletoe pin winks at him and turns green again. “Andrew _likes_ me.”

Someone sucks in a gasp of laughter and someone else coughs and Matt makes his eyes very wide and round.

“Really? An honest-to-god, real-life person? Who likes you?” he says and whistles. He’s joking. A little. “That’s a first.”

“Ha ha,” Neil grumbles.

“I hate him,” Andrew says.

“See?” Neil says triumphantly.

“Um,” Matt says.

“I want to go home,” Neil announces.

“Sure,” Matt says, “but, um, buddy…”

“I _want_ to go _home_ ,” Neil reiterates.

“Okay, okay. But you gotta let go of Andrew first.”

Neil looks down at his hand, which is holding on to the reindeer antlers around Andrew’s neck. Not touching his nice skin, no, never.

“No.”

“I’ll come,” Andrew offers, to more gaspy laughter and exclamations around them. “Someone has to make sure he doesn’t get himself in any more trouble.”

“Quiet,” Neil protests, “I was quiet. In my corner.”

“You insulted five people and threw a spoon at someone, and that was after I rescued you from that football player you told to go suck a dick.”

“Oh,” Neil says. “He was. Offensive.”

“I’m sure he was,” Matt says fondly. “Come on then, let’s get you home. Andrew can stay over and keep watch.”


End file.
